A LAST FACT
by ohwhatagloomyshow
Summary: I should tell you that the book thief died only yesterday.


The ringing itself was not the problem: it was his joints, the way his knees refused to bend, the shuffle of his legs to inch closer to the phone on the wall. He was old, and growing older still. The age itself did not bother him, but the betrayal of his body was unforgivable.

He caught it on the last ring, grateful. "Hallo?"

Silence, and a swallow. Then, "Mother passed away today."

A long, long pause, and a sigh that spanned a world war and two hand-painted books. "In her sleep," was finally handed over; "she must have laid down for a nap."

He had to ask; he couldn't help it. "What's the weather like?"

He could see the soft smile that would be growing on her mouth. "It's beautiful, Uncle Max. It's so beautiful." There was the crying. "The clouds are soft and—" desperate gulping "—they're coming from the ocean like mountains. The sun is lemon-yellow and _hot_ and it's a deep periwinkle sky."

"She would have loved it." He listened to the muffled, uncontrolled gasps for another moment. "Have you started planning the funeral?"

"No, we haven't—gotten in contact with Nick yet. He's still out of town." The calming down, settling of her breath. "One of us will call you when we do, though. Frank says it might be good if you start packing your bags now, just in case."

By the time she finished, her voice was under control, and now it was just exhausted and duty-bound. He let himself smile. "Thank you, Emily. I'll wait for your call."

He had almost hung up by the time she delivered one last response. "I love you, Uncle Max," thick with budding grief, before she ended the call.

He sat and watched the breeze through the flowered curtains of his kitchen window for a very long time.

_She insisted on holding his hand, as wrinkled and liver-spotted as it had grown. She laughed when he finally handed it over to her grasp with a fake long-suffering sigh. When she smiled she was thirty years younger, crow's feet and laugh lines and all._

_ "It was good of you to come out, Max," she said, finally, squeezing his fingers. "I know the kids really appreciated it."_

_ He grinned. "And what about _you?_ Did _you_ enjoy it? I made the trek for you, after all."_

_ She laughed again. It was a delicate sound, high and lilting. Beautiful in its old age. "Of _course_ I enjoyed it, Max. I _always_ enjoy seeing you."_

_ One of her grandchildren—they were all so young, and so _similar_, he could hardly tell them apart—interrupted with a present in his hands. She grinned and gathered the child onto her lap, holding the wrapped box in front of both of them, teasing him with her excitement. He held his empty hands together in his lap as he watched, and was so immersed that he nearly jumped from his skin when his wife placed her hand on his shoulder, watching as well. _

It frustrated him in that distant kitchen that he couldn't remember what the gift had been—some perfect child's present, proudly picked out by five year old hands and cherished by grandmother and grandfather alike. All he could remember anymore was when she took his hand back, and he leaned over the wicker armrest to whisper, "Happy birthday, _Saumensch_," in her ear before kissing her weathering cheek. That responding laugh had been softer, had come with her warm palm on his cheek. "Thank you, Max."

The next afternoon he and his wife had packed up their bags and left Sydney for Perth once more, carving out their blissful retired existence with the occasional visit of a child with grandchildren, or on the happier occasions one of her children would pop by for a weekend. Emily visited the most, with her soft blonde hair and light brown eyes, looking the spitting image of her mother at her age. He could never tell if those visits depressed or brightened him.

"Max?" Eleanor's soft voice startled him, and he turned abruptly to her form in the kitchen doorway. She still wore her robe and slippers, with her gray hair down and unstyled, somehow looking younger, and at the very least much too comfortable for the news he would have to relay.

By the time he said the words aloud, he was crying, and she came to hold him. It frightened her when he muttered a phrase she didn't understand, sputtering through his sobs.

"My word shaker, my word shaker."


End file.
